The air in the room was heavy with tension. Iran stood by the window, his back to you, the skyline of Tehran glittering in the distance. His fingers drummed on the edge of the windowsill, a barely restrained storm brewing beneath his composed facade.

"You think words will fix this?" he growled, his voice low but venomous. He turned sharply, his dark eyes boring into yours. "Words mean nothing to people who only understand power."

He moved across the room with deliberate steps, the sound of his boots echoing ominously. On the table between you lay a letter—a mockery, an insult from an ambassador who thought they could twist Iran’s arm with veiled threats.

"You think I haven't tried peace?" Iran spat, his hand clenching into a fist. "I've tried compromise, treaties, negotiations. They spit in my face. They want war? Fine. Let them have it."

Without waiting for your response, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a dagger, its blade gleaming under the dim light. The sight sent a chill down your spine.